The Runaway
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: OC-centered story. In June 1970, 10-year-old Josh Marshall flees home with his 1-year-old brother. What was intended as a temporary solution- homelessness- becomes the norm for the boys for the next four years.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**XX**

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**XX**

**A/N: This story was inspired by Jenny wrens' review of my story, "The Thief". She hinted that I should perhaps write some more and tell how Josh and Chris Marshall (two OCs from my story "The Cadet") came to be adopted, beginning the process that led them both to meet Anthony DiNozzo, Jr. in the mid-1980s. I got some ideas together, and on 2-24-2019 I managed to get a first chapter written. A modified version of the story "The Thief" will appear in this work, as this is an expansion on that one, but that'll be later on.**

**Be aware that profanity is used more than a few times in this chapter, and it deals with some rather difficult subject material. Nothing too graphic, but it isn't the most cheerful stuff. The OCs Josh Marshall and Chris Marshall had a rough start in life, and this is a first chapter in taking a look at that.**

**Thank you, Jenny wrens, for inspiring me to expand and continue my work. To anyone else, I hope you like this first chapter.**

**XX**

* * *

_June 10, 1970_

Josh sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the fire escape, crying and smoking a cigarette. He hated the damn things, but he hated just about everything. Especially his parents, who were busy having a fight. Steven- Josh refused to even think of him as "Dad"- had started yelling at Josh when the 10-year-old came home from school. Josh had tried to duck into his room, and he managed to close the door at least before Steven grabbed him and threw him out here.

It had almost been the end of him, getting thrown out the open window. Josh had struck his head on the damaged guardrail and only by throwing his arms out and grabbing sections to his left and right did he keep from going over the side.

A wonderful mix of blood, sweat, and snot decorated Josh's face as he sat on the metal walkway. He stank, and he knew he did. The water was turned off in the apartment so often that Josh didn't even hold out hope for it anymore. He picked up loose change, counted it religiously, and every so often he got enough gallons of water stored up in the apartment to have safe drinking water and give himself a sort-of bath. For the past year he'd been looking after little Chris, too. Mom had given birth to him in the apartment last year. It had been an ungodly mess.

But I cleaned it up, Josh thought resolutely. I kept Mom off the bad stuff for nine months. I don't know why. Just another mouth to feed. We have no goddamn money. But Anne and Steven just had to do it. And now I've been making sure the baby gets fed, gets taken care of. What am I doing? I don't know. I just don't know anymore.

"Look at this! Look at this!" Steven shouted. "You see this? Thirty days overdue!"

"Well, it wouldn't be overdue if you-"

"And this! And this! Bitch, if you keep going out to buy coke, we're gonna miss the rent and then you'll see how much you like it!"

"I only buy the coke when you gimme the money! I need it! You know I need it!"

"Yeah, no shit! We both do! Not my fault we got fucking hooked!"

"You're not even old enough to drink, whadda you know about it?"

He slapped her.

"Ow! God, I'll get you! I'll show you, you sonofabitch!"

She slapped him.

"Bitch!"

Josh exhaled, took another drag from the cigarette, calmly listened.

"Damn! That hurt, damn it!"

"Don't fuck with me and I won't slap you!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Strangely enough, the argument settled down after that. Ten minutes later, as he finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the alley below, Josh heard the two of them screwing. He was used to it. He'd seen three carjackings, a dozen robberies in various stages of progress, hookers "servicing" their clients. He'd seen a dead cat in an alley, seen the pack of rats working on it. Josh heard at least three gunshots around here every night and was pretty sure he'd seen at least one murder. You learned to see and forget, see and forget.

And being a kid, just a filthy kid with skinny limbs and a ragged mop of red hair, Josh was forever unseen and forgotten anyway.

Unless I get thrown outside. Or slapped, or kicked, or punched. I'll get a black eye when I refuse to sell drugs at school for them. They ask every couple of weeks, when they remember.

The afternoon wore on, and Josh got bored. He sat there, half-naked in a pair of jean shorts, staring out across the alley, wondering how he'd been born into… this.

_It doesn't matter. You're here. All the rest is bullshit._

"Hey, hey kid!" Steven said, sticking his head out the window.

"What?"

"You eat anything outta the fridge again without my say-so, I'll really throw you off that balcony."

"We don't have a balcony."

Steven reached out, grabbed Josh by one arm, backhanded him left and right, left and right.

"I could've chucked you out the fuckin' window, you stupid brat! I kept you here and all you do is eat all the goddamn food! While I'm working you're wastin' time at that stupid school!"

"Let me go!"

Steven grabbed Josh's head, forced it down toward Steven's groin. He stank worse than Josh did.

"You came outta here," Steven said. "If I could I'd put you back. All you do is mouth off and eat my fuckin' food."

"I didn't- ask- for- you!" Josh snarled. "I didn't ask you to fuck her!"

Steven threw him into the old TV; Josh's head banged against it and he saw stars. Anne was lying on the couch, passed out. Her clothes were strewn around the room amongst a debris field of wrappers and trash.

"Get up!"

Josh stood. Steven punched him in the nose. "Ah! Goddamn it!"

"Don't you swear in front of your mother!"

"She's not my mother! I hate her! I hate you! Someday you'll what you deserve! You'll get yours! I know it!"

Blood was running freely from Josh's nose, pain throbbed all over his body, but he didn't care. He took the blows, one after the next, and finally dropped himself to the floor, sweeping out one leg and folding Steven's knees. Steven lost balance and fell over, and Josh ran up and kicked him on the side of the head several times, stunning him. Then he bolted for the kitchen, grabbed his backpack, and fled to his room.

"You little bastard," Steven groaned. "I'll get you."

Josh sat with his back to the door, resignedly listening as Steven weakly pounded on the door and then lost interest and left. For whatever reason, Steven and Anne both had some short memories. Once Josh got in here, his parents could not see him, ergo he was no longer there, more or less.

"Joshabrudder," Chris said, carefully standing up by holding onto one of the corner planks in the crib Josh had made for him out of a shipping pallet. There were a few toys, an old stuffed bear. Most importantly, there were pillows, enough that the baby didn't risk splinters or cuts. Josh had spent a lot of sleepless nights over that at first. He hadn't trusted his own improvised crib enough to sleep, so he had forced himself to stay awake, stolen Coca-Cola and sipped at it from dusk till dawn.

Josh quickly grabbed for a rag on the floor and wiped at his face. He knew he must look awful, and he didn't want to scare Christian. The kid had never actually been named, so far as Josh knew. All Steven and Anne ever said was "the baby." So Josh had named him, calling him "Chris" for short.

"Yes, yes, Joshabrudder," Josh agreed, forcing a smile onto his face. He stood, made it to the crib. "I'm here. Brother's gotcha." Tears started rolling down his cheeks, cutting tracks through the grime. "Josha's here."

"Joshabrudderheere," Chris babbled happily. He made a tiny fist and booped Josh on the nose. "Gosha," he said, apparently his word for "Gotcha", while "Gosh" meant "Good."

Worried that crying would upset the baby, Josh willed himself to calm down. He had learned from experience that showing emotion was a bad idea most, if not all the time. On the streets around here, if people saw a kid, they saw "opportunity". If they saw a kid who looked nervous, afraid, and most importantly of all, alone…

"Got some food," Josh said. He reached into his backpack, got a couple of jars of stolen Gerber food jars. A carefully-hidden tiny spoon and a baby bottle containing water came next. Josh spent half an hour slowly and carefully feeding the carrot, green peas, and a tomato-flavored sauce that Chris loved to the infant. Chris babbled along to songs Josh hummed. Steven and Anne fought some more outside. Josh's stomach growled, but Chris was well-fed, healthy and happy. It was situation normal around here.

After playing with the baby for another thirty minutes- Chris was delighted whenever Josh tickled him, picked him up, sang songs or played games with him- Josh went for Chris' favorite.

"May there always be sunshine

May there always be blue skies,

May there always be children,

May there always be you."

Chris chortled and clapped his tiny hands as he recognized the tune, then fell over and giggled. He was always happy, always full of energy. Somehow, this shitty, miserable apartment had produced a kid who had fallen in love with life after just 12 months. Josh wiped away tears, then kept singing.

"May there always be stories,

May there always be music,

May there always be teachers,

To care for you.

May there always be sunshine,

May there always be blue skies,

May you always feel special,

Because you are you."

Josh's chest hitched once, twice, but he kept it together and finished quietly singing the song. Chris babbled along, saying "Gosh," "Gosha," and "Joshabrudder" a lot in the process. Eventually, his eyelids started to droop, and Josh helped him lie down.

"The news isn't so good from the war," Josh recounted. "The people say an-roll-ment is down at the colleges and the Army isn't winning. They say nobody is, not the Navy, or the Air Force or the Marines." He put on an official voice, imitating the guy on yesterday's news broadcast: "I tell you again, Bob, we're gonna need more students in ROTC or the services won't get the officers they need. Numbers have been dropping since 1966. This can't keep up, Bob, I tell you. We gotta buck up if we wanna win this war."

The Vietnam War was the one thing that seemed to be making America hate itself as much as Josh's parents hated him. Josh really didn't know what Vietnam was- some far-off place with a lot of swamps, groves and palm trees. It couldn't have possibly been worse than here. Given the fact that it was so far off, it actually had to be much, much better than here.

People were always yelling at each other about Vietnam, and they were always talking about it on the news. Josh stole newspapers when he had to, paid for them when he could, and in struggling to teach himself how to read, Josh covered articles on Vietnam a whole lot.

Whatever it was to other people, the war, recited to him in a calm, businesslike voice, bored Chris. He dozed off quickly and napped peacefully. Babies were supposed to sleep a lot and this one was no exception. At least he didn't cry or fuss too much. If he got noisy, that made Anne and Steven mad. Every now and then they got really tanked or high- or both- and the baby fussing would set them off. Josh had fought to keep them out of here before. He had broken Anne's wrist once. That was part of the reason they left him and the baby alone, so long as they stayed in their room.

Josh lay down on the hardwood floor and closed his eyes. It was a warm night, but not as bad as it could have been. With the window open, letting in outside air, it was all right. Josh thought about that all the time. High temperatures, or excessively low ones, could harm Chris. And that was not acceptable. Josh didn't know why, but from day one he'd made himself Chris' defender, parent, brother, caregiver, protector. He ate and slept less now than he had in 1969, just a year ago, but somehow he was actually happier. Life remained miserable for him, but it was actually okay for Chris. He wasn't getting the same treatment Josh was, not with Josh running interference, keeping Steven and Anne at bay.

At some point, Josh dozed off. He slept hard, and it was not until his stolen watch beeped to signal midnight that he opened his eyes. He heard voices out in the hallway. The door began to open, and Josh closed his eyes again and laid still. He sensed danger, but not the kind he was used to. Something was going on.

"That's them?" a man's voice asked.

"Yeah," Steven said.

"You're up to your fuckin' necks. I gotta tab a mile long on the two of you. You only got one kid who can even work?"

"He's a hard worker," Anne promised. "Every day he goes out and comes back with food for the baby and everything. He's a great thief. They never see him coming."

"The baby won't be good for anything for a while."

"But later," Steven pleaded. "They take 'em on a boat ride, yeah? Anybody can do that, even at 10 or- or 12 or 13 months, whatever."

"The one on the floor's skinny as hell."

"I toldja he would be," Steven said. "Now what can you give us? Seriously, they gotta be worth something, right?"

"Trying to save yourselves from me?" the unknown man said. "Maybe I oughta send the botha you on a boat ride. See how you like it." He closed the door.

"You want 'em?" Anne asked. "We can't keep 'em anyway, they'll be better off- wherever you take 'em."

"That's nonna your business, sweetheart."

"C'mon," Steven said. "This is a major investment right here. You're getting a great deal."

"All right. I don't really care what the fuck happens to you two. But, tell you what. Tie up the kid on the floor and I'll be back in an hour."

"Tie him up?"

"He looks like a fighter. I seen enough kids that I know a fighter even when he's sleepin' and his back's turned."

"Okay, we'll do it," Steven said.

"I got some string we could use," Anne offered.

"I don't care what you use. Just have 'em ready. You do that, I'll call it even."

"Oh, thanks, thanks a lot," Anne said, desperation and relief clear in her voice.

"One hour," the man said. He left.

In the summer of 1968, Josh had found something in an alleyway, inside a small brown paper bag. Josh was sure someone had left it there, just out of sight behind a dumpster, for someone else to come along and get it. Instead, Josh had stolen it on impulse. He'd waved it around, mugged a few people with it. Never fired it once, but was sure he knew how. It had a device that locked and unlocked the trigger, and as Josh silently lifted the loose floorboard and grasped it, the black-painted steel was cool to the touch.

Then Josh put the revolver in his pocket and picked up his backpack from where it lay near the door.

**XX**

The escape plan took only a few minutes to execute. Josh agonized over how to pack all of his hidden rations of food and water inside and also have room for some protective pillows and the infant. He was sweating, nervous. More frightened than he'd ever been in his life. But Josh was accustomed to fear, and he knew how to give it its place, keep it there, avoid letting it control his actions.

Chris fussed some when Josh picked him up, fussed some more when Josh started trying to fit him into the backpack. A distinctive smell reached Josh's nose, and he lost more precious time changing a diaper in the dark. The baby wriggled around, and Josh wished he could just tell Chris this wasn't the time to play. The fact that Josh was stiff and silent must have communicated something, though, because Chris finally settled down and let Josh fit him carefully into the backpack.

_Time to go_, Josh thought as he gently hefted the backpack, fitting its straps over his shoulders.

_Where?_

_Anywhere. Just as long as it ain't here_.

That sounded like a good plan. Josh crept toward the window, climbed out onto the fire escape. He was just starting to make his way down the first flight of steps when the door opened.

"Okay," Anne was saying. "You- we're not gonna hurt 'em, right?"

"Whadda you care?"

"I just don't think we should hurt 'em."

"Yeah, well- hey!"

"What?"

Steven switched on a flashlight, and in one moment of dumb luck he aimed it right outside, right at Josh.

"Hey! Hey, you come back here, you motherfucker!"

Josh wordlessly fled down the first set of steps, slipped, nearly twisted his ankle. He almost landed on his back, too, but a desperate grab at the railing stopped that.

_Oh, thank God, ohthankGod-_

"Get back here, you little punk!"

In sheer desperation, Josh pulled the revolver from his pocket. He flicked the safety off, thumbed back the hammer, and simply aimed it upward, toward the window.

"You said you weren't gonna hurt him!" Anne cried, getting closer to the window.

Josh pulled the trigger.

BANG!

Anne screamed. Steven screamed. Chris wailed. Josh bolted down the fire escape. He thought he could hear only one voice coming out of the window. Had he heard a body hit the floor? Maybe. Maybe. No way to know unless he wanted to go back, and Josh was never going back. He ran, ran like hell. At some point he began to hear sirens, but sirens weren't new. Around here, you heard them all the time. Gunshots and screams and sirens were all just part of the background.

Finally, Josh skidded to a stop at the bottom of the fire escape, panting. His hands shook as he set the revolver on safety again, pocketed it. The barrel's heat radiated out through the thin lining of Josh's pocket.

Chris fussed and cried, and Josh's wild eyes flew all around as he watched the dark alleyway and tried to calm the infant. Chris accepted some water from his bottle, at least, and eventually settled down.

"We're gonna have to run," Josh said to his brother. "We gotta run far away. Danger. Danger, Chris. We can't stay here. But I'll keep you safe. Always. I promise. Just stay with me. Can you do that, little brother?"

Chris stared back at him. He wriggled further into the backpack, settled down amongst the clean spare diapers and the small pillows and blanket. "Joshabrudder," he said finally. That seemed to be his decision.

"Gotta run now," Josh said, almost to himself. "Gotta run fast. Stay with me, Chris. Stay. All right? Let's go."

The malnourished 10-year-old shouldered the backpack once more, sprinted forward, into the dark. He ran into some bums, showed them the revolver, made them keep their distance. Josh ran to the train yard, stowed away on the rear of one of the cars. From there, he breathed a sigh of relief and checked on Chris. The baby was sleeping, incredibly. Sleeping, after all this! Josh laughed weakly, and that made him feel better. As the train got moving, Josh took care so he was hidden under the overhang of the back of the hopper car, out of sight.

_It's a long, long way ahead_, he thought. _But at least we're safe. At least we have that. At least we have each other._

That wasn't much. But for now, all things considered, that was enough.

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**XX**

**A/N: 2-24-2019.**

**I must have had ideas that led to the first chapter of this story kicking around for months before I finally wrote them all down. This chapter was all written in one day, worked out over the course of a few hours. A lot of work for a relatively short chapter. I put a lot of thought into it. The chapter wasn't the most fun piece I've ever written, but it does accurately depict where my OC, who later on took the name Joshua Scott Marshall, began.**

**Jenny wrens deserves a fair bit of the credit for the creation of this story. Her review of "The Thief", once again, is what inspired me to write this and expand on how Josh and Chris came to be adopted by a career Marine sergeant in 1974. As this story goes on, depicting various snapshots of life for Josh and Chris, I will try to look for chances to plausibly depict one or two of the canon characters from NCIS. Most of the principal characters were quite young in the early 1970s, and some had not even been born at all. And given how Josh and Chris were on the streets from 1970 to 1974, their chances of running into many of the central characters aren't that great. I'll include some things when it looks like there's an opportunity, but the story is ultimately focused on the early life of two OCs I feature in my work "The Cadet". Josh also appears in Jenny wren's story "Gibbs' Test", which is set in the early 2005.**

**All reviews are welcome, so long as they are polite.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

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_October 10, 1970_

Thomas Zane was just locking up the gas station's convenience store, looking forward to getting the hell out of here and going home for the night, when he felt something jab him in the back.

"Freeze, motherfucker!"

The 20-year-old jumped, letting go of the keys, which hung from the lock. "Shit!"

"Open that door back up!" the kid ordered.

"Wha-"

"Open it up or I'll blow your fucking guts out!"

"Listen-"

"NOW!"

Thomas reached down, found his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't grasp the keys at first.

"Kid, you don't have to do this, man."

"Shut up! Open the goddamned door!"

"Okay…"

Thomas worked to unlock the convenience store doors. It took him a couple of tries to get it right. Once he finally succeeded, the kid jabbed him harder in the back with the gun barrel.

"Go inside."

"Sure." Thomas opened the door, walked inside and headed instinctively to the register. He was surprised to notice the gun barrel leaving his back, and a kid who looked to be about ten or twelve grabbing various snacks, cans of food, a couple of hiking canteens. He stuffed it all in spare pouches on the side of a shabby-looking backpack, into his pockets where he could.

The second Thomas started to move, though, the boy snapped a black revolver in his direction. "Got any baby food?" he demanded.

"Baby food?"

"Yes!"

"Sure, it's over there," Thomas said, pointing.

The kid hurried over to that side aisle, snatched a handful of jars, then ran over to Thomas. "Open up that register, asshole. Do it!"

"Kid, if you wanna rob the place-"

"Gimme some tens! Five! I want five of 'em!"

"All right, okay. Just don't kill me."

"Do what I say and you'll live."

Thomas opened the register, took out fives instead, but still handed over the right amount of money. The kid looked it over, then suddenly the gun barrel was much closer.

"I said I wanted _five tens_! Not ten fives!"

"Easier to break a five," Thomas said. "Runaway like you doesn't wanna have to break too many big bills. You don't see many kids carrying ten dollar bills either."

"Fine." He motioned with the revolver. "Get on your fuckin' knees."

Thomas hesitated. "Listen-"

"Do it!"

"Okay, okay." Thomas knelt, and the kid quickly moved behind him. "Are you gonna kill me now?" Thomas asked, almost curious. "Over fifty bucks after I gave it to you?"

"Shut up," the kid ordered.

Suddenly the barrel of the revolver crashed down on Thomas' head, clearly meant to knock him out. Thomas shouted in pain and surprise, and the kid tried again. The second time was a charm, and Thomas was out like a light.

Upon waking up several minutes later, Thomas immediately checked the entire store, intent on finding what else the kid had stolen. Nothing was missing beyond the food that Thomas had seen the kid take and the fifty dollars. He called the Greenbrier County police, and a sheriff's deputy came by, along with a West Virginia state trooper who happened to be in the area. They took a report and promised to look into it; in the meantime, insurance covered the losses.

The kid was never found. The Sheriff eventually called to say they'd had a sighting of someone matching his description at the Pocahontas County Greyhound bus station, carrying a child of maybe 12 months' age with him, but they both disappeared before anybody from the Sheriff's office showed up.

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**A/N: 8-13-2019. Uploaded 5-16-2020.**

**This takes care of Chapter 2 of "The Runaway," the prologue story for the OC brothers, Joshua Scott Marshall and Christian Scott Marshall. Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 are set in 1970, 3 and 4 will be in 1971, 5 and 6 in 1972, 7 and 8 in 1973, and then 9 and 10 in 1974. There may be another chapter or two after that, but I haven't quite decided yet. Main thing I need to do is just get these smaller chapters done, establish some valuable backstory on the two young men who play such a pivotal role in "The Cadet." Well, the backstory is largely sketched out in my head- I just need to actually write it down.**

**This short chapter was not posted until May of 2020 mostly because I forgot about it. I also probably had some intention of possibly adding more content, but not all chapters need to be several thousand words long. This story is meant to be more of a series of snapshots, or one-shots if you like, of the early years of Josh and Chris Marshall as they made their way through the world on their own. This chapter offers a good look at one of the ways Josh found to obtain food and money so he and his brother could survive in the years they lived on their own.**

**All feedback is welcome.**


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